Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Damien
Apparently, I swim now.
In the days since Blair showed me the secret pool in the cellar of Thornhurst, our mornings have fallen into a new routine. One day we run, the next, we swim.
Compromising the way I live to accommodate someone else’s needs isn’t something I’m familiar with.
Apart from a few short-lived relationships, interspersed with the occasional, impersonal hookup, I’ve been on my own for a long time.
My brothers have been the only consistent presence in my life, and they’re the only people I would ever have considered adjusting my behavior for.
Until Blair.
We seem to have found a fragile state of détente.
I wouldn’t call us friends, but we’re not enemies either, and the newly established peace feels more dangerous than the weeks of psychological warfare that preceded it.
At the time, I hadn’t realized it, but now I can see the constant bickering and hurling insults were a way to vent the other things I feel for her.
Unfortunately, there is limited time in which to find another way to vent the other things, because come tomorrow, Thornhurst will be busier than I’ve ever seen it.
Over two hundred prestigious guests will be flooding into the estate from around the world to attend the “intimate” engagement party for Alba Porter and His Grace, James, the Duke of Fairborne.
Even if they’re secretly disappointed the title doesn’t come with a crown, Lord and Lady Porter appear to be sparing no expense to celebrate their middle child’s marriage.
Caterers, florists, decorators, and an army of cleaners have been coming and going from the estate all week, which means that my job—keeping track of everyone, and ensuring they don’t wander into an area of the house they aren’t meant to be—has been unusually hectic.
As an added complication, Lady Porter fired the party planner who’d originally been hired to manage the whole affair—I wasn’t aware seating charts could be considered a “disaster” until all this—and Blair was drafted into overseeing the setup.
The Porters themselves will be arriving tomorrow, along with the future bride and groom, and their accompanying flurry of high-ranking staff members, for an additional layer of tension to the preparation proceedings.
Which means that, for the past few days, I’ve seen very little of Blair.
It shouldn’t bother me. Yet every time I enter the house, I find myself… paying attention.
Having an intense awareness of one’s surroundings is something of an occupational hazard in my line of work, but this is different from what I’m accustomed to. When I strain my hearing, or scan the room I enter, I’m not looking for something wrong—I’m looking for her.
It. Won’t. Fucking. Stop.
It’s unrelenting, and infuriating, and it’s no use trying to convince myself that I’m not doing precisely that. Not when I do encounter her, and her presence rushes through me like a stiff drink, making me warm, a little woozy, and—worst of all—thirsty for more.
This isn’t just attraction. I’ve been attracted to women before, had feelings for women before, and those instances seem flimsy and insubstantial when I put them against what Blair Porter inspires in me. Obsession might be more accurate.
When we’re not together, I wonder what she’s doing.
I’ve caught myself searching for reasons to go to the main house, in the hopes of seeing her.
When I do see her, I can’t seem to stop filing away inconsequential details about her, as though my ability to do my job hinges on knowing how she takes her coffee or the types of jewelry she favors.
It’s driving me mad.
Yes, we’re getting along for the most part, but nothing has changed.
I’m still employed by her family and hold the keys to her freedom at the end of this.
The power imbalance, the age difference, the mountain of emotional baggage I’ve been dragging around…
Nothing should have happened. Letting it go so far was an inexcusable lapse in judgement, and one that I’m determined not to repeat, for both of our sakes.
Right or wrong, however, I’m not capable of forgetting it ever happened.
I remember, in painful clarity, every minuscule detail of the morning after the break-in. The morning I found her in my bed and was too fucking exhausted to stop myself from giving in and taking what I’d wanted from the moment we met—try as I might to deny it.
It was a mistake.
I know it was a mistake.
So, naturally, I find myself pushing open Thornhurst’s kitchen door during my lunch hour on Thursday, holding an enormous bouquet of flowers under my arm.
The kitchen, which I’m used to seeing empty, is now crowded with boxes of party rentals, large stainless steel tray racks, and several members of staff preparing for tomorrow’s event.
“Looking for Blair?” asks Summer as I enter, pausing in the act of removing several hundred crystal goblets from their packing cases.
The innocent question is surprisingly loaded, and I wince, adjusting my hold on the vase as one of the catering assistants hurries past, bearing a large crate of smoked salmon.
“Yes,” I admit, nodding to the blooms, as if delivering three dozen long-stem roses to a woman is going to make this look casual. “Need to see if there’s someplace she wants these.”
I must be projecting, because Summer doesn’t appear to think anything of this, and merely smiles cheerfully as she turns back to her work. “She was in the ballroom a minute ago.”
Not waiting around for further questions, I thank Summer and head through the house to the entrance hall, which has been bedecked in garlands, holly, and a twelve-foot Christmas tree for the occasion.
The ballroom doors stand open to the right, and I pause in the doorway, taking it all in.
Large, round tables, draped in deep red, have been arranged along the right side of the room.
On the left, a line of glittering Christmas trees stands evenly between the high windows.
Everywhere you look, there are ribbons, ornaments, and all the trappings of an elaborate holiday-season party.
Even I, who am not the largest fan of this house or the people throwing this event, have to admit it’s beautiful.
And none of it compares to the young woman standing at the center of it all, alone in the vastness of the room.
Blair hasn’t noticed me yet. She’s frowning, listening intently to whoever is speaking through the phone held to her ear, free arm wrapped around her middle.
Sighing, her head drops back, allowing herself an unseen moment of exasperation as she speaks, her voice carrying clearly over to me.
“Don’t worry, Alba. I triple-checked, it’s all here. Yes—even that.”
The corners of my mouth tug, and I find myself fighting a smile as I watch her lift her fist into the air in front of her, shaking an invisible person.
“Yes, Alba.” There’s no mistaking her irritation now, and her sister must think so, too, because Blair’s next words come with an air of forced calm.
“No, I’m not making fun of you. It’s very reasonable to be concerned about the well-being of the centerpieces; however, I assure you, they’re all present and accounted for.
Just like they were present and accounted for when you called me about them this morning.
We’re just waiting to put them on the tables until tomorrow, in case they drop any petals.
What? What’s that? You’re breaking—shhhh—up! Alba?”
And she ends the call.
“Nicely handled.”
Blair whips around and, seeing me in the doorway, smiles sheepishly. “She and my mother are driving me crazy,” she admits, shoving her phone into the pocket of her dress. “They don’t trust me to do any of this but refuse to disrupt their schedules to come take care of it themselves.”
“Must be nice.”
“Right?” She rolls her eyes. “Are those for the infuriating bride?”
For a moment, I’d forgotten why I came in here, but recover quickly. “From the Swedish Ambassador and her husband,” I tell her, moving farther into the room. “Apparently, they’re not able to make it, but send their most sincere apologies and best wishes.” I stop before her, holding out the bouquet.
Blair’s fingers brush mine as she takes it, setting the arrangement atop the nearest table with a sigh. “How nice for the Swedish Ambassador and her husband. I wish I couldn’t make it.”
I clear my throat, turning my gaze to the nearest, non-Blair attraction in the room—the nearest Christmas tree. “It looks great in here.”
“Does it? I’ve spent the past forty-eight hours being told everything that’s wrong with it, so my judgement might be a little screwed.
” She says it wryly, but as my eyes dart automatically back to her, I see a hint of bitterness in her familiar features.
“I was going to ask whether all siblings are this infuriating, but I actually don’t know if you have any. ”
My stomach drops, and it’s difficult to keep my expression impassive and not react. “I have—had—three brothers.” I feel Blair’s eyes on me as I stroll over to the nearest Christmas tree, examining the ornaments without any real interest as I wait for the inevitable follow-up to that.
“Had?” There’s a hint of something—sorrow, maybe—in her voice.
“My eldest brother died several years ago now. We weren’t particularly close.”
As I glance back, I see her face has fallen. “Still,” she says softly, “I’m so sorry, Damien. That’s… I mean, Alba and Cedric and I aren’t particularly close, but I would still be devastated.”
I’ve always felt a little funny claiming any sympathy for Arthur’s death.
What I told Blair is the truth; we weren’t close, not like Ben, Leo, and I.
The late king avoided acknowledging our shared paternity whenever possible but still asked for my help managing our two younger brothers when necessary.
I believe he viewed me as a bridge of sorts, useful on occasion, but otherwise ignored.